


Paralysis

by 17thousand



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Planet Hoth (Star Wars), Pre-Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, Sleep Paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28636293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17thousand/pseuds/17thousand
Summary: Angst and freaky dreams on Hoth. One-shot. MA.
Relationships: Leia Organa/Han Solo
Kudos: 22





	Paralysis

If he hadn’t changed his mind and returned on that decisive day, would she even able to pick him out in a crowd now?

Leia often wondered if she would still remember Han’s face, months later. Was one extended day together, through the red mist of rage and the haze of terror, enough to cement him in her mind? Or would her memories of him be uncertain, the same way she could never quite picture Ben Kenobi despite having stared straight at him, watched him close his eyes just before Vader cut him down. That encounter simply hadn’t been enough to stamp a definite face to the name she had heard her father invoke for years on end. When she closed her eyes and tried to remember the old man’s final expression, his likeness swam and melded with those of her uncles, her teachers, a palace gardener. He would forever remain an abstraction. A recurring character in her family lore, of which she was now the sole custodian.

Would she remember Luke’s face, if he had perished in his valiant attempt to destroy the Death Star? Well, for one thing, she’d probably be dead too. But if she had survived, she liked to think she would remember him clearly for the rest of her life. He’d immediately felt permanent. Like someone she’d always known and who had always known her. Someone whose face was familiar at first glance. Even if she’d only ever known him for a day, she was certain she would never forget his smile, his open, searching gaze. He became integral to her very existence from the moment he pulled off the stormtrooper helmet. Her rescuer. The indelible fact of _being_ rescued at all, when she had spent her whole life quite assured that she would never need a hero. Then been certain she was going to die, having accepted that she would soon join her kingdom and not have to continue on alone and despairing. Feeling a terrible sense of relief. Until her rescuer wrote himself into her story.

No matter how many times she heard the now-legendary tale recounted, or how her mood might color her own memories of the rescue, in her mind that credit was always entirely Luke’s. Not because he was the first one she saw, but because, as she had immediately suspected and was later confirmed, it had been his decision alone. Ben Kenobi had gone after Vader. It was Luke, as soon as he learned of her captivity, who had insisted they take the risk. What else was there to say? _Luke and some guy with a Wookie – have you ever seen one? They’re quite impressive._ That’s who broke her out of the Death Star. She would remember Han as an accessory to the rescue. Just like he was an accessory to the victory over Yavin, and an accessory to the Rebellion thereafter.

Yes, he had cooperated, he wasn’t stupid. She’d quickly proven she wasn’t a useless, ornamental kind of princess. He’d recognized that and adjusted accordingly. To save his own skin. Just like sticking around was serving him in some way now. His rationale kept changing, but the man was the same. He didn’t decide, he reacted. He didn’t commit, he played along. As long as he saw some benefit in doing so.

_An opportunist._ That’s what her father had called people like him. Bail Organa had often been magnanimous towards his detractors. _The problem with Senator C. is that she is as convinced of being on the right side of history as we are._ Shaking his head sadly. _If only Prince Y. weren’t so stupid, he’d make a valuable ally._ A benevolent sigh. _Those delegates simply inhabit a completely alternate reality._ Plaintive disbelief. But how he spat with contempt when he said, _Of course that opportunist pledged for me in the end, he saw which way the wind was blowing._

Opportunists. You could find them in any situation, on either side. Something other, something lesser than an opponent. Not worthy of an Organa’s respect.

And certainly not worth dreaming of.

...

Leia was accustomed to the paralyzing dreams by now. The first time, when she was just a girl, had been terrifying. Finding herself conscious in her bed, in her plush and cozy room, watching something crawl through her window. Trying and trying to scream for a guard, to get up and run. Unable to move a muscle. Pinned to her pillow and rendered mute, her cries silent. The kindly palace doctor had expressed gentle concern. A known phenomenon. One hemisphere of the brain awakened while the other dreamed on. Stress was often a culprit. Her studies? The pressures of her role as royal heir, no brother having manifested? Her mother's illness?

These dreams came sporadically, and knowing what they were helped. _It’s just a dream_ , her paralyzed dream self would eventually realize as she struggled to identify the intruder, and she would let go, drift back out of her room, into the next dream.

She was a teenager the first time a new form of the dream arrived. The visitors had never been able to touch her until then, but that night, the handsome actor in the play that had riveted her and the rest of the Royal Family, tiptoeing into her room. It had felt so impossibly real. Impossible, because she'd never felt the real thing. Not even close. So how could her sleeping mind conjure up the pressure of him pushing into her, the euphoric feeling of almost... almost... almost... Unable to open her mouth and beg, unable to move at all until suddenly, at the crucial moment, she'd fallen out of sleep hard, shocked, hot and soaked. Incredulous. _That had to have been real, because how...? But surely it wasn't, because then...?_ She couldn't look her attendants in the eyes at breakfast. Had she really not made a sound?

Those versions of the dream, her dream self timidly allowed. They were rare anyway, especially during her grinding years of studying history, training, studying politics, shadowing her father in the senate, training, studying languages and galaxy-wide etiquette and encryption and trade routes and basic poisons and the art of war and the art of suggestion, military combat drills ( _the Princess is joining us today...?_ ), straight into campaigning. Winning. Then plunged into the deep end: that lonely, lonely double life as a senator and a spy. Surrounded by people from the moment she woke up, her voice ringing out to crowds and committees. Never quite sure whom she could trust with which parts of herself. Unwavering only in her trust in the mission. Keeping her guard up. Always looking to her father. Her rock, her commander, the one who had set her on this path and who always had the answers. Somehow, with the stakes so high, sleeping a deep, dreamless sleep, sleeping more peacefully than she had in nearly a decade. Which proved how right it all was.

\--

And now this. The adrenaline fog of the escape and the victory had initially blocked the grief and horror, while keeping her awake for about a week. Then she'd crashed, and from then on, the paralyzing dreams had returned with a vengeance. Supercharged with her brain’s new source material. The buzzing syringe droid hovering closer and closer to her cheek. Stormtroopers pounding on the door to her Alliance quarters while she lay frozen in excruciating, endless suspense. Grand Moff Tarkin, ludicrously, stalking out of her locker to bend down and slither his cold hand against her face, down her neck, down, down... Her body trying its hardest to scream and scream until her dream self finally remembered the secret: It’s just a dream _. Do I talk in my sleep?_ she'd once asked her bunkmate on the base before Hoth _. Not at all. Do I?_ The Twi’lek had replied.

They came frequently, and she resolved not to read into them _. Stress dreams._ In a way, the garden-variety nightmares hurt worse. Seeing her planet explode before waking up to a blaring alarm, so that it always felt like just yesterday. Even the good dreams hurt. Walking through her favorite street, eating an ice treat in the park. An undercover mission on Mimban but what's this, her partner lowers her hood and its her beloved mother, who takes her hand and leads her to a gilded speeder, saying _I don't feel like doing this today darling, let's just go home_. Waking up orphaned on Hoth.

So Leia avoided sleep. As much as she could. That's all she'd been trying to do tonight. She'd gone to meet Luke for a late dinner in the canteen, after her shift in the command center and his patrol. No better cure for the creeping despair than his serene warmth. He was always eager to uplift. She suspected doing so helped him feel better too. He loved to gather people around himself. When the canteen closed, he suggested she join him on his next social call: Han was teaching him Sabacc, because he was tired of watching Luke embarrass himself every Friday night at the pilots’ game. Not her preferred way to spend an evening, but why not? The Falcon was warm, Chewie brewed excellent herbal teas, and the Opportunist could be good company when he was winning, which was a certainty tonight. _Ouch_ , said Luke, and off they went, nearly racing through the frigid hangar.

Han smiled wide at the sight of her, then bowed ridiculously as he waved her aboard, smugly inquiring if she'd overcome her royal spacelag after the speed with which he'd once again escorted her between bases. She rolled her eyes and took a seat on the curved couch around the holochess table.

“Do you want to play, your Worship?" Han fanned out the cards on the scuffed metal table, as though preparing a magic trick.

"No, I just want to watch."

"I bet you do," he smirked.

"Hey," said Luke, flashing him a warning look as he removed his jacket.

Chewie ambled over and invited her to pick a tea bag out of his assortment. Leia thanked him and selected Calm Embrace. The cards were dealt, Luke took his blows cheerfully and showed minute signs of progress. Han hopped out of his seat and tore open a packet of Spacer's Nutri-Sweets, serving Leia hers on a little chipped plate for no discernible reason while he and Luke ate directly off the table. They were chatting amiably about the Rogues' latest successful mission when the evening took an entirely predictable turn. Before she knew it, she found herself roped into another circular, pointlessly belligerent argument. This time, it seemed as though he'd expressly waited nearly a year, until he had finally crafted the most perfectly convivial atmosphere, to gleefully reveal that he did in fact have political opinions, well-informed ones, and of course, they were all wrong. Worse than wrong. Blatantly nihilistic.

"It doesn't matter who's on top, it's those of us on the bottom that pay either way," he jeered while deftly dealing Luke a hand, cutting her off as soon as she segued into a reminder of the Alliance’s overarching goals.

"Please don't waste your breath suggesting that you pay taxes," Leia retorted over the brim of her cup.

“Of course not. Never have, never will. And that includes if you win. I'm not funding cronyism and corruption and the exploitation of worlds that didn't do nothing to -"

“Utter hypocrisy given your line of work, and anyway you're describing the Empire. The New Republic will do away with all of that. Of course you haven't bothered to read the charter. I'll help. Article One: Abolition of Slavery –”

“Sounds beautiful, sweetheart,” he had the gall to laugh. “How are you going to enforce that? You'd need an army twice as big as the Empire's to police every star-forsaken spitball in the Outer Rim. Where you gonna get the soldiers? Galactic draft? How are you going to enforce THAT? Even more bureaucra-”

“No need,” Leia took a breath. “First of all, fair trade and labor policies coupled with stronger regional law enforcement structures will disincentivize enslavement, in part by initially subsidizing droid labor for dangerous or unskilled tasks while empowering all beings to orga –”

“But you had all the droids and cops you needed on Coruscant, where last I checked, slavery IS illegal and the majority of senators oppose it, and you revolutionaries couldn't root it out in your own backyard. You ever set a slippered foot in the lower levels, darling?”

“Because the Imperial Senate is toothless and enough of them profit from it to obsfuscate any attempt to investigate. They will be removed. The entire new Assembly will be elected from scratch. It's about priorities. The Empire prioritizes human supremacy and we prioritize freedom. The proper allocation of resources will follow. And you WILL pay taxes because you'll need to find a new profession when black market smuggling becomes –”

“Profession?” He'd spluttered, clutching his cards to his chest. “You think smuggling is anyone's profession? What, like I went down to the job center and asked for _life of crime_? I'm a pilot, your Out-of-Touchness, THAT’S my profession. How I make money is called survival, that's what goes on outside the palace. And if I don't believe putting a different set of plutocrats in charge is going to undo a millenium’s worth of problems, that's because I've seen a lot more of the universe than – ”

“Then why are you even here?” Her pulse raced, her cheeks burned. Eyes shining and locked on each other.

“Change of scenery. It's called a sabbatical.”

“I thought it was called Sabacc,” sighed Luke.

She took her leave soon after, gathering her dignity around her flushed face and neck, shoulders back, chin up. Han offered her the last of the Nutri-Sweets, which she shoved back across the table. He retorted with the snidest of salutes, lip curled, his wrist as languid as his eyes were cutting. She felt those green eyes all the way to the Falcon's hatch, until it hissed shut behind her.

Her footsteps echoed through the deserted hangar as she wound her way through the Y-wings and fighter crafts, then pushed on through the icy corridors of the base. She had her own quarters here. Although she appreciated the luxury of privacy, she sometimes found herself missing the companionship of shared quarters and bunkrooms. Being surrounded by snoring beings, dead to the world, allowed her dead world to recede in her mind and made it easier to imagine she had always lived on bases.

She palmed the entrance screen and kicked off her boots, not bothering with her uniform, and collapsed into her bunk, pulling the stiff covers up to her chin. The argument played on a loop through her head. Insufferable opportunist. As if "every man for himself" was an ethos. A moral high ground he alone had discovered while the rest of them scrabbled in the muck. She felt both drained and agitated. Determined to clear her mind, she focused on the breathing exercises recommended to her by the last Alliance medic.

...

When her eyes opened a short time later, the room was still dark and silent. She was on her side, facing away from the door, staring at the insulated panels of the wall. Someone was lying in the bunk with her. A hard body edging up against her back, radiating heat. An arm reached around to gently draw her closer, a knee prying her legs apart. She knew who it was instantly, though she couldn't turn and see his face. She felt leaden. Hot, damp breath stirred the hairs at her nape. _Sweetheart_ , she heard him whisper. Dragging her towards him in slow motion, as though underwater. Why was her body so desperate to help him in this endeavor? Rather than resisting, it ached to push back and nestle closer. Her skin protested against her jumpsuit, overheating and breaking out in sweat. Hoping he would notice. Please, let him take it off me. _Unzip it. Unzip it. Unzip_ \- _No!_ She scolded herself. _Not him. Why him?_ His hand curved into her waist. She should stop him. She had standards. Sound the alarm, this is –

_This is… fine_. Her dream self shushed. The hand journeyed down her hip and along the outside of her thigh, then back up, stroking softly. _It's just a… it's the brain randomly processing the experiences of the day. That triggered… this. So what? It's something that feels nice, for once._ It did. It felt warm and delicious, like sinking into the abyss of a promised afterlife after a long battle. But that was giving in, which she hated. She should - _No,_ her dream self said firmly. _I don't want to snap out of it. Why should I? There are no morals in sleep. This isn't part of the war, there are no consequences. I want to see what happens next._

Next, his lips against the back of her neck were tender but his tongue in her ear was agony, hot and slick and insistent. His breath resonating inside her head and echoing in her nerves. His fingers traced her zipper, then her inseam, then back up, in an endless, electrifying circuit. She wanted to howl, but she couldn't even tremble. With no outlet, she felt herself beginning to implode, turn liquid. She wanted to insult him. Tell him how wrong he was, how vast the chasm between them would always be, how nothing he could ever do would change that. _Good idea_ , her dream self murmured. _Goad him. He'll fall for it. No need to admit anything._ But she couldn't form the words.

Suddenly, she was on her back, her legs spread open beneath him, sinking under his weight and into the lumpy mattress. His mouth moved over hers, delicately parting her lips. Her breath caught. _Oh please, please, please._ Every muscle strained to respond. An alarm blared.

When her eyes opened, she was flat on her back. Still tucked under the covers. She unclenched her fingers and closed her mouth. Her heart was pounding. When she rolled over to bury her face into the pillow, she shifted her legs and learned she was dripping, the hair there sodden with it. She tried a deep, calming breath. It hadn't been real, she counseled herself. She would jump in the sonics and wash her Alliance-issued underwear. She would forget about it when her day got started, and nobody would ever find out. Work would take over. She could face him today and any other day, because he was none the wiser.

Her dreams didn't have to be moral, or ethical, or even royal.

_But of every hotshot pilot and strapping young recruit on this base…_

_Why him?_

\--

Xx

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
